


Party Night

by gerbilfluff



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, Awkwardness, Backupsmore University, M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 22:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7550437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gerbilfluff/pseuds/gerbilfluff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only his first week at Backupsmore, and Stanford’s never done this before.</p><p>If the first ten minutes are any indication, he’s never going to go to a college party ever, EVER again.</p><p>(For Day 1 of Fiddauthor Summer Challenge: College)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Party Night

It’s only his first week at Backupsmore, and Stanford’s never done this before.

If the first ten minutes are any indication, he’s never going to go to a college party ever, EVER again.

His demeanor’s shifted from anxious, to haughty, to bored, as he’s swished around the liquor in his plastic cup. He sips from it occasionally to keep up with the crowd, but he’s been side-eyeing the other guests as they get louder and more boisterous. Not that you could tell; the music’s at a level he can feel pulsing through his teeth. He already knows he’s going to have a headache after this.

He didn’t know his roommate was invited here as well.

McGucket’s seemingly a pro at this “party” business, only a year ahead of Ford himself. He glugs down the rest of what’s in his cup and makes a beeline for Ford after some initial back-and-forth eye contact. “Long time no see, stranger!” the sophomore drawls.

Ford squints at him. “WHAT?” he cries over the music.

McGucket nods and points with a thumb over his shoulder, towards the dorm’s kitchenette. Then turns and walks away.

At least two minutes of sweating and glancing around ensues until Ford begrudgingly follows him.

“Yeah?” is all Stanford can bring himself to say when he’s finally escaped the music. The bass beat still thrums in his ears, but most of what the other students are calling “tunes” is thankfully out of the way.

“Been watchin’ you,” his roommate says, pointing at him like he’s already won a bet. “You been lookin’ at me since I came in.”

Ford’s sweating only gets worse. “I, uh,” he says, cursing himself for having a genius’s vocabulary and not being able to find a single word to reply with. “You’re… the only one I recognize here.”

“Yeah?” McGucket smirks, lapping around the rim of his empty cup in a way Ford’s completely oblivious to. “S'been a whole week of classes gone by.”

“Yeah. It has,” Stanford replies, clenching a fist with a sudden rush of defensiveness he’s not sure why he feels. “Why?”

His roommate shrugs lightly. “Tell you what, Pines. I only go to parties for one reason. Would you rather go out there ‘n make ten friends you’ll barely speak to again, or ONE friend you can tell ANYTHING to?”

Ford glances down at the six-fingered hand clutching his cup, despite himself. “Anything?” His cheeks are suddenly far too warm.

“Anything,” echoes McGucket, narrowing his eyes.

Stanford’s mouth is already pursed to a thin line. “I *think* I get what you’re saying,” he says slowly. “And if that’s the case… I need another couple drinks, McGucket.”

“No shame there,” his roomie smiles, curling an arm around a sweating Ford’s shoulder as they wander back to the living room. “And please. Call me Fiddleford.”

——

Twenty minutes later, Fiddleford and Stanford are back in their dorm room, curled up upon Fiddleford’s bed– the only one without a quarter of the science section’s library books piled on the mattress. A lit blunt wafts curling smoke up from between Fidds’s fingers towards a flyspecked ceiling.

Ford’s distracting himself by trying to find constellations amongst the dead flies. His eyes are wide, reddened, and burning. He was *hoping* to talk to a girl at the party tonight. He’d even pencilled in “Talk to a girl!!!” on his personal organizer for the day. This is NOT how he was expecting things to go.

Fiddleford’s just finishing up. “And that’s how I built my first murderbot,” he says, taking a puff from the blunt and passing it back to his freshman roommate. “Held me back another year, but dang if Victor Mortensen’s ever gonna upstage ME for a final project again, am I right?”

I thought I was going to finally talk to Betty Daniels tonight, Ford thinks.

And realizes with dawning horror that he’s said that out loud, as Fiddleford guffaws. *“Betty?* Man, why’d you want anything t'do with HER?” Fiddleford slaps his thigh, still chuckling. “Man, she’s in my Intro to Soc class! D'you know she thinks Kinsey’s the devil himself?”

Stanford can’t help raising a clueless eyebrow at this. He stares at the blunt in his hand and wonders if he’s heard the word right, through his spinning skull. How many cups of… pink stuff… did he have tonight? And the weed, once the two of them had gotten back here… “Kinsey?”

“Y'know! Kinsey!” Fiddleford blurts, gesturing into the air aimlessly, as though Ford’s just claimed he couldn’t read. “That guy’s the wave of the *future,* I tell ya. Men, women… Love’s all the same, am I right?”

Ford gapes back at him.

Until he feels Fiddleford’s hand clasp over his. His eyes jerk up to meet his roommate’s. His pulse is back thrumming in his ears, all over again.

Fiddleford grabs the roach from his grasp and squashes it into the ashtray at the head of his bed. “Tell me you don’t want this,” Fiddleford’s saying to him, and Ford can feel fingers running up the bottom tails of his untucked shirt. Grazing the hairs on his chest. Raking gently over a tender nipple.

Ford’s shuddering at the touch– the first unasked-for touches of his life, even if they’re far from Betty’s. For the life of him, he can’t remember what Fiddleford just asked him. All he can feel is heat coursing through his face, his blood pounding. Pleasure. Pleasure. *Pleasure.*

“I’ll stop,” he hears his roommate say. The hand slinks out from under his shirt guiltily.

He looks up into Fiddleford’s eyes. Those blue, honest, reddened eyes.

“Unless… you wanna find out how much I been starin’ at you since we started here, too.”

Stanford feels the soft press of lips against his own.

And he pushes away. “I… I don’t know…” is all he can get out, wilting under the admiration in the sophomore’s eyes.

“Hey… It’s okay,” Fiddleford assures him, patting his back. “You’re not into it, that’s all good, you’re not into…”

Even when Fiddleford asks him long after the fact, Ford can’t explain why he lunged for his roommate just then. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or the Mary Jane haze. Or maybe it was all the long nights gazing at his brother’s bodybuilding posters with thoughts he never thought he could say, given confirmation, put into words, at long, long last.

Either way, he’s watching himself unbutton Fiddleford’s fly. Bending down to take a much bigger cock than he was expecting into his mouth, fumbling and suckling at pink, wrinkly flesh, not having the slightest clue if he’s doing what he’s doing *well.*

“Whoa there, city boy,” Fiddleford laughs, in a bubbly, nonthreatening tone. “You sure about this?”

“Yeah,” is all Ford can get out, before he’s spearing his throat down Fiddleford’s length once more. Which remains stubbornly floppy. So much so, Fiddleford’s soon pushing Stanford’s head back.

“Hold on. M'not… really ready m'self. Had a few too many t'night,” the voice above Stanford murmurs. He feels himself enveloped by Fiddleford’s body, hugging him tight. “But let’s try again some other time, nnkay?”

“I’d like that,” says Ford, and he means it.

They still manage to stay in Fiddleford’s bed until the morning.

Stanford likes that, too.

It’s only his first week at Backupsmore, after all.


End file.
